Deeds Well Done
by tinlizard20
Summary: Behind-the-scenes in the creation of a TV classic. Brittana. Rated M for language.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

Brittany S. Pierce did not _do_ nerves. At least, she didn't allow her anxiety to bleed through and display itself for the rest of the world to see. The same way sharks can sense blood in the water and eagerly move in for a kill, most human beings seemed ready to react pretty much the same way, although - so far - only metaphorically, when they sensed a person's vulnerability. Brittany, being somewhat different from most people, had tremendous reserves of vulnerability and so had learned to hide her anxiety behind a combined front composed of confidence (partially assumed) and quirkiness (100% true). But on this particular day, her anxiety was showing and that simply wouldn't do. She stood, alone and irresolute, in the dingy, dark hallway, and looked around for a temporary escape where she could pull herself together. _Game face on, Pierce. Game face on._

She walked quickly toward a nearby restroom, double-checking that it was in fact a women's restroom (some mistakes only need to be made once), and soon faced herself in the mirror. She looked flushed, and nervous, and even a little tearful, none of which is part of her normal game face. So she ran her wrists under the cold tap, while taking deep breaths and forcing herself to calm down. She could do this. The first reading of _Joy!_'s script was being held soon, and everybody would be there, all the personnel associated with the show. She'd finally be meeting the cast. She knew Mercedes, of course, but every one else was a stranger to her. She was looking forward to meeting them, especially Kurt Hummel and Santana L-

"Fuck!" The door to the bathroom was thrown open with such force it slammed against the wall. A group of women entered, led by a petite, stunning dark-haired beauty ... oh no. Maybe Brittany wasn't ready to meet Santana Lopez quite yet, after all. Fortunately, none of the women so much as looked her way. Had she finally turned invisible? That would be cool on so many levels but probably not really ideal. Could this be a weird waking dream? A mere fantasy? She'd had more than her share of Santana-inspired dreams over the years, after all, and had recently been hyperventilating up a storm, so maybe this was not really happening at all? But Brittany dismissed this almost immediately. In her Santana-dreams, there had only been one blonde, whereas right now there were _four_, counting Brittany. And that was three too many in her considered opinion.

"I mean, for reals? DL is a freakin' genius, we all know that, but why am I so convinced that pretty soon I'm gonna be best known for starring in his biggest bomb?!" If Brittany was trying to rein her nerves in and contain them, it was clear that Santana Lopez was taking the opposite approach, and doing a great job of broadcasting them as far as her beautiful voice could carry them, with her little posse of pretty blonde girls hanging on her every word. "I mean, hello, I'm supposed to be a cheerleader?! Do I look like a fucking cheerleader to you? I've only spent the last three years of my career trying to escape that last cheerleader role and just - ! Fuck me now! I can't escape it! Like, fuck's sake, 'being a part of something special makes you special'? Really?! Who the fuck writes shit like that?!"

"Um." Brittany raised her hand, wondering vaguely if her apparent invisibility had an off switch or not. "That would be me, actually."

Santana Lopez, and her posse, turned in a strangely synchronized movement, and stared at Brittany.

Awkward.

_~some months earlier~_

"All right, DL, we are here, and we are ready to hear your about your latest 'hit' show idea."

DL looked up with suspicion, having caught the shade in the word "hit" and puffed out his chest a bit before looking hurt and woebegone.

"I am not just a _showrunner_," DL said with emphasis, "I am a _hitmaker_." He was about to mention that he owned his own plane, a bright purple-red Learjet he called PhallicSymbol, but checked himself. (It was perhaps telling that in terms of success, he would first consider how much money he'd made and not the quality of his actual work.) Instead, he paused for effect and to take a deep breath, in order to run through the highlights of his monstrous career, but the Faux executive did not let him get any further.

"Yes, DL, we here are all aware of the success of _Slip and Tuck_ ..."

"Damn fucking straight you should be!" DL's face took on a somewhat alarming purplish hue. "That fucking show made millions for your fucking network! And it was _groundbreaking_! I always do groundbreaking shit!" Arms flailing around for emphasis, flecks of spittle appeared in the corners of DL's mouth. It was a grotesque sight.

DL did not lie. _Slip and Tuck_ was a unique show about a maladroit transsexual plastic surgeon as its (anti)hero. There were bets around the network offices that DL had gotten the idea after a riotous night gone badly awry in West Hollywood. It was equally true that the show made millions for the studio, before gloriously falling to ruins in the third season and limping to an unsatisfying conclusion shortly afterwards. DL had never forgiven the network for not renewing the show so he could "fix it" but given the nonexistent base upon which the flimsy storylines had been built, there was no saving the show and Faux had cut its losses with its normal ruthlessness.

_Slip and Tuck_ was no _Firefly_, and its much-abused fanbase had quickly moved on, licking its collective wounds and vowing never to watch another DL show. That sort of thing happened to DL a lot, and he had no idea why.

As the meeting wore on, it was clear that DL still felt the sting of the loss of _Slip and Tuck_, and it was equally clear that the executives and their flunkies viewed DL with the deep suspicion of people who had been had. This was entirely understandable. Nonetheless, it was a pitch meeting and DL made his pitch with his customary class, manners, and grandiosity:

"Okay, okay, shut up you fuckers. I have a hit right here in my hands, and I'm not talking about my dick." He pantomimed a very rude gesture and then held up a script with his usual flourish. The script actually consisted of a cover sheet saying _JOY!_ By Dinky Littelmann and two pages of half-assed dialogue, followed by 47 blank pages. The 51st page said THE END WHILE ALL AMERICA CHEERS.

"This is the story of the Warblers, a glee club at a private boys school in rural Ohio. It's the story of underdogs, of outcasts, but they're not ugly and they have talent, so America will root for them. This," DL flourished the script again and looked proud and very nearly sane, "is a story that will resonate with all America, especially the masses of people with no talent who think they're something special. Guaran-fuckin-teed to bring in big ratings. And here's the thing, since they sing and shit, we can also sell the songs! Show'll pay for itself with a thirteen!"

The executives and flunkies exchanged skeptical, worried glances with one another. The chief of programming, a very fat man named Stephen Hyde, cleared his throat.

"This is a private boys' school, you say?" Mr Hyde asked. DL, whose face was suffused with pride, nodded his head sharply. "So. It's a place of white privilege with no girls?" The prideful expression on DL's face slipped a tiny bit. He didn't see any problem with this. He, DL, knew there was no underdog like a white privileged male outcast.

"I think this idea has merit," Mr Hyde finally said, after enjoying a moment of watching DL squirm. "But with, perhaps, one or two very minor changes which you will, of course, implement. My assistant will get back to you with a list." Here Mr Hyde looked with longing at his assistant, Aleska Janson. She was young, lithe and gorgeous, with long limbs and glowing black skin, and everybody who knew of her position with Faux assumed she'd had to fuck her way to her current place of merit. Like many Hollywood "facts" there was no truth to this widely held belief whatsoever. Mr Hyde may have occasionally (or frequently) hoped that one day it may become true, but deep down he knew he had no chance. He also knew that Aleska was whip smart, with incredible instincts, and did her job with admirable ruthlessness, fueled in large part by the rumors about her, which had initially left her shaking with fury. She'd managed to harness this anger as so much fuel, and used it to feed her business acumen and career. DL was one of the worst purveyors of the Aleska-slept-her-way-up rumor factory. And having heard DL's views about her rise to the top echelon at Faux, she let the stony mask on her face slip for just a moment, as she contemplated the enjoyment of the task at hand.

One thought was uppermost in her mind: _Joy!_ needed lesbians. _Joy!_ with lesbians would make DL break out in hives. And all America would cheer.

Aleska Janson's office was a marvel of color located in Faux's main office building (known by all as the obie), a building known for its cut-rate drabness, where even the windows were tiny and opaque and unhelpful. There were brilliant, though fake, African tribal masks in dramatic blacks and reds on the walls, complete with recessed spotlighting. In one corner there was a large spear, with a deadly looking, suspiciously red, tip, that had been fashioned into a coat rack, three additional blunted tips growing out of the original base. She did not hang her coat there, preferring to leave the unusual bit of furniture empty and thus sharing its subtle air of weaponed menace with visitors. She found this helpful. The large couch, squarish, unyielding and uncomfortable, was upholstered in a large black and red checkered pattern and looked like a surreal, Dali-esque checkerboard. It was somehow deadly and disconcerting at the same time, as if it were fully capable of swallowing visitors whole. She found this helpful as well. She had also somehow managed to acquire a large, bright red desk, which she liked to show off when she had to meet with people she detested. It was entirely bare for her meeting with DL.

After an insincere exchange of greetings, they got down to business. It was clear from the first that DL was deeply insulted to be meeting with Aleska and not with Stephen Hyde. Aleska picked up on the outrage immediately and savored it. She gestured to one of the red and black checkered chairs, which matched the sofa, across from her desk and DL took the seat with a childish thump of umbrage. Then Aleska calmly opened the center desk drawer, brought out a single sheet of paper and slid it across the surface of her desk. DL made no move to pick it up and instead stared at the woman, nursing his imagined grievance. Aleska wanted to make that grievance real, so she briskly outlined the minimal changes Faux required in order to greenlight _Joy!_ for production.

She took great joy in watching DL's face turn a mottled purple as she told him that, first, _Joy!_ would now be centered around a bunch of misfits, boys _and girls_, at an Ohio public high school. At least one of the boys would be gay, and at least one of the girls would be a lesbian. DL started violently at the word "lesbian" and absently began scratching his neck. She went on to note that the Warblers would indeed be part of the show, namely the necessary bad guys against which the plucky heroes would learn valuable life lessons and overcome adversity. The main stars would be the lesbian and the gay boy. Final approval for casting decisions would be shared by DL and Faux, but Aleska stressed that it would be a very good thing to use an actual gay young man and an actual lesbian in the roles, and she had a short list – listed right there on the the paper she'd given him – of people she thought would work for the parts.

"They aren't especially well known performers, especially the boy, but they are talented and can carry this show. They're double threats, too, since they can act circles around most actors in their age group AND also they can sing like angels." Aleska opened up the desk drawer again, extracted a CD case and placed it on top of the paper. "Demos," Aleska said succinctly. The list was certainly short, since it consisted of two names only. DL reluctantly picked up the paper and read Kurt Hummel, male lead, and Santana Lopez, female lead. He had never heard of either performer but hated them already.

"And finally – I confess I'm really excited about this idea ..." here Aleska smiled and DL broke out in a sweat of terror, "Faux wants a newbie writer for the show's staff, someone who will be chosen by the network." DL's mouth fell open in mingled shock and horror, but he didn't realize he would shortly feel that much worse. "_She_ will be a lesbian or bisexual or transsexual, and we'll have a contest to find her. It'll be a fantastic way to get some early buzz for our show! I'm thinking we can start publicizing the contest at universities and on pop culture blogs and websites. I've already begun drafting the post for tumblr!"

Poor DL was still grappling with the word "she" and therefore unable to process anything further.


	2. Chapter 2

(a/n: thanks so much to the sole reviewer of the first chapter, and to the folks who have favorited and set story alerts.)

Brittany woke up with a full brain. She'd had a series of dreams that were already slipping away from her but they'd left her feeling invigorated and interested to see what the day would bring. There had been Lord Tubbington, resting in splendor in a cat-sized easy chair, thumbing (well, pawing, really) his way through a math book. The little table next to his little chair held a stack of books, an open Cat Fancy magazine, and a tablet, browser open to the I Can Has Cheezburger site. There was also a little crystal dish, on a little white doily, brimming with fresh tuna. (One of Brittany's many theories was that her dreams were sometimes invaded by Lord Tubbington's dreams. This certainly sounded like one of his. She could only hope that this apparent dream conduit was a one-way street.) Behind Lord Tubbs was a very white space which had slowly morphed into a snowstorm. Given that it was winter and she lived in Boston, this wasn't much of a surprise, but she was slightly aggrieved that it had been snowing _even in her dreams. _Geez. But then things got really interesting because multicolored lines started to form, planar geometry giving way to ... Fatou sets?

The dream was already slipping away. Time to get up.

Padding into the kitchen, Brittany found her roommates in a deep, silent staredown, with Mercedes putting all of her considerable attitude into the look and Lord Tubbington giving it right back.

In lieu of a good morning, Brittany said, "you two should kiss and make up."

"EW! No!" It was Mercedes who said this, but Lord Tubbington looked equally outraged by the idea.

"Mercedes, come on. You talk like that, you'll hurt his feelings..."

"He took my TOT! Then he tried to come back for seconds!"

"You can build on that!" Brittany encouraged them both, "you have stuff in common!"

Mercedes rolled her eyes, but at least the staredown was over, for now. "Brittany, he jumped on the tabl-"

"Exactly! Consider how much effort it takes for him to do that."

"Yeah, well, he shouldn't have," Mercedes said flatly. "When I shooed him away from my tots, he lifted a leg and started cleaning his butt. It was rude."

Brittany sighed. "It's just ... he feels that you don't understand the concept of sharing. Lord Tubbington has a limited vocal apparatus, so he uses body language to show you how upset he was," Brittany explained calmly.

"Oh, he showed me all right." Lord Tubbington, apparently having heard enough, waddled from the room with great dignity. He'd managed to snare a couple slices of bacon from Mercedes' plate while she'd been conversing with his human. He felt it would be best for him to quit the room now and retire to his bedroom (that he allowed Brittany to share). Anyway, it was time for his postprandial grooming, followed by his first nap of the day. He was nearly in the room when he heard a bellow of outrage from the direction of the kitchen.

Once Mercedes had calmed down, their breakfast conversation then turned to the weather. Both girls had grown up in Southern California and though they loved Boston, it had been a bitter shock to realize the full potential of a New England winter. It's one of the things that don't get mentioned much when you take that lovely _springtime_ campus tour when everything is mild and gorgeous.

Since there had only been a moderate snowfall of something less than a foot the night before, classes at the Berklee College of Music, where Mercedes was enrolled in her final year, and at Emerson, where Brittany was studying creative writing, were still on, which meant they needed to leave soon. As they left the Back Bay apartment they shared, neither was aware that the day would eventually bring big changes to both women. And to Lord Tubbington as well.

ii.

In a nondescript office building in Culver City, California, a group of industry executives gathered for a quasi-audition for a new, groudbreaking show that was already amassing a fair amount of carefully cultivated early buzz. Aleska Janson sat quietly at the end of the table, looking at her iPad and making the occasional note. A couple of the assistant casting directors were running around trying to look busy while their (utterly terrifying) boss, Susan Schwartz, sat next to Aleska and wracked her brains for a good opening remark that would, hopefully, lead to a great friendship and, most importantly, more jobs for Susan Schwartz. Life is hard in the industry. Next to Susan sat the great and fabulous Dinky Littelmann and next to him sat the other, lesser executives of his production company. They were all there to bring _Joy!_ from its initial concept phase to pre-production, with the first step being to meet, interview, audition and mildly terrorize the talent, namely Kurt Hummel and Santana Lopez, and judge whether they were right for _Joy!_ and finally to judge if they had that elusive thing called chemistry.

In the outer room, Kurt and Santana waited patiently, both playing with their phones while trying to stave off any outbreak of nerves. Santana was an old hand at this, since she'd been performing pretty much her whole life, but for Kurt, this was a new thing and he wasn't even sure why he was there.

He cleared his throat tentatively, "may I just say, red is _such_ a fantastic color on you."

Santana shot him a considering look: okay, well, he definitely wasn't hitting on her. "Thanks," she said, sounding bored, "every color looks good on me."

Kurt sat up straighter in his seat, clutched his phone to his chest, and looked distinctly ruffled. "Um, yes, I'm sure that's true. It's equally true that you really know how to accept a compliment."

"Okay, I'm gonna stop you right there," Santana started, and would have said quite a bit more, but fortunately at that moment the door opened and a frazzled assistant casting director invited them in. Santana and Kurt exchanged a quick, shared, commiserating glance, their previous animosity completely forgotten. It was showtime.

Aleska was already sitting up straight when the talent entered the room, but internally she sat up straighter still, looking at the two of them closely. They looked good together. Santana was pretty and had that shiny, luscious long dark hair and light brown skin, her outsize personality too big for her petite form. And Kurt was so pale and had such pretty blue eyes and an elfin grin covering what Aleska suspected was a high level of intelligence. Aleska let slip a slight smirk, since "intelligence" and "acting" didn't go hand in hand all that often, really. But it was clear that there was real talent here, and that both of them were hungry for success. They would be perfect for _Joy!_

Now she – and they - just had to convince that idiot Dinky Littelmann.

DL wasn't making things easy for them. The first thing he said to Santana was "how much plastic surgery have you had, anyway?" and the first thing he said to Kurt was "I'm sure you're utterly delicious," he paused to smack his lips in a slightly perverted fashion, "but you look like a porcelain figurine come to life, dear boy." But after this inauspicious start, Aleska stepped in and brought the meeting back on track, and after they'd read their lines several times, becoming, in a weird dichotomy, both more relaxed and more excited as they realized that they played well off of each other and that their characters had real potential. After the first hour, when they took a break, Kurt and Santana exchanged friendly, happy grins. It was going well and Aleska would have also smiled, if she hadn't had a reputation for stoicism to maintain. She stood up, the quick movement startling Susan Schwartz no small amount (she still hadn't been able to think of a single scintillating thing to say to get the great and mighty Aleska to acknowledge her existence: dammit) and made her way over to where the talent was seated in isolation against the far wall.

"You guys are doing great," she assured them both, "and they've already seen some demos of your singing, you won't have to sing today." Both looked relieved at this, since they'd come to the meeting completely blind, having been told specifically to _not_ prepare. DL had told Aleska he wanted them completely fresh, but Aleska suspected he really wanted them to be off balance so he'd have the upper hand. He was petty that way.

Aleska had a reputation for being tough and ruthless, and casting directors (generally known in the industry as "seedies") were widely perceived to be inhumane monsters possessing neither empathy nor compassion. And of course, DL's reputation had preceded him too. Everybody knew he was a genius and a terrible human being and he'd certainly shown them the truth of that second item. Curiously though, neither Kurt nor Santana felt any antagonism from Aleska, and both wondered why this was so. In point of fact, Aleska knew quite a bit about both of them. She knew that Kurt was an exciting young talent and just needed the right material in order to shine. And she knew that Santana wasn't quite the bad girl gossip sites would have you believe she was. Aleska wanted to give both of them their chance, even if it meant making a pact with the devil, which was pretty much how she viewed having to work alongside DL.

Santana Lopez had been born working, since her mother Maribel had actually gone into labor while onstage singing, with Santana not wasting any time, being born offstage left shortly after. This was a story Maribel never got tired of telling, and she would follow it up with "Bobby and I just knew from the start that she was special and was going to be a star." Santana doubted very much that her father, Dr Bobby Lopez, plastic surgeon to the stars (but mostly plastic surgeon to his wife, Santana was pretty much convinced that her mother had married him to cut down on medical bills), had thought any such thing. And even Maribel would have preferred to be the star of the family, but her brief career had long since been all-but-extinguished and she was forced to put all of her hopes and dreams onto the small shoulders of her only child. So Santana had worked and worked. And worked some more. She had honed her craft. If she herself had never really had the chance to choose this life, it was her life and she was going to do the best she could with it. The result? Until that day, the result had been mostly secondary roles that a seedy would refer to as "ethnic best friend" or "slutty cheerleader" and a certain amount of malicious, mostly untrue gossip about her offscreen behavior. It wasn't easy in the industry to be a young woman, still less easy to be a person of color, and least easy of all to be an out lesbian. Aleska knew all this and more about Santana. And Aleska believed in her and in her considerable talent.

_Joy!_ was going to happen.


	3. Chapter 3

(a/n: This chapter is fondly dedicated to Killer Cereal, who has patiently read all the bits of fic I have sent her way and has bucked me up when I've whined about whether anybody was reading my little literary ewe lamb. For a person of somewhat questionable sanity, she gives great advice, and has written some of my very favorite fanfics as well. I know she wants the brittana to get going here (who doesn't?), but it's not quite time yet, so instead have a little ersatz brittana, and my apologies. Also a big thank-you and shout out to Lauren H 91, for the comment she wrote, which made me smile. I'm glad some folks are reading it and enjoying it, at least.)

Small hands, slow and light, caressed Brittany's back, nudging aside her long blonde hair to touch the back of her neck. Tips of fingers gently glided over the exposed flesh of her back, lips eagerly following them. Lying supine and naked on her stomach, normally Brittany wasn't so passive during lovemaking, but this felt so, so good and she didn't want it to stop. And it didn't, because then there was tongue, a wet eager tongue licking just below her left ear. _Oh yeah_. The tongue licked with a bit more force, feeling more like sandpaper than a caress -

Brittany jolted awake, thanks in large part to Lord Tubbington's efforts. It was time for his second supper, after all. Brittany, still sleep-fogged, reached out a hand and petted him around the ears, "your timing really sucks, Tubbykins," she said ruefully, "I was having the best dream." He placed his forelegs on her shoulder, possibly a warning shot fired in response to the odious nickname. Brittany got the message and carefully dislodged him. "Come on, Tubbs, let's get you fed, and then Mercedes and I are gonna go over to the Double O because we've got a gig!"

It had been a pretty strange day for Brittany. Routinely sure-footed and graceful, even in the perilous New England winter, she'd slipped on the icy slush entering Emerson's main building and had slid into the bulletin board just within the doorway, vertically face planting against a newly tacked notice. In her face – quite literally - was:

GOT TALENT?

WRITING OPPORTUNITY ~ NEW TV SHOW NEEDS NEW WRITER ~ COULD BE YOU!

... and the small print went on to stress how it was a great chance to get in on the ground floor and work with some of the television industry's best people, led by Dinky Littelmann, the genius behind _Slip and Tuck_. It also mentioned that queer candidates would be especially welcome. Hmm. Brittany's first reaction was that it was a joke, and her second reaction was that it was a publicity stunt. She knew very well that new hire writers were few and far-between and owed more to propinquity than talent a lot of the time. One of her professors, who had written for several TV shows, had once told her that Hollywood writing was all about "who you know, and who'll you do," and then proceeded to ascertain if she'd be willing to do him. (She wasn't.) It had been a sort of life lesson. In any case, Brittany was intrigued by the flyer, but had a "rule of three" for anything of obviously life-changing importance, namely that there had to be three points of contact to triangulate the level of necessity to change. "Math is cool and can be applied to any situation" is a motto to live by, in Brittany's opinion.

Later on when she'd gotten home, she found a copy of the exact same flyer, with a note from Mercedes saying she'd found it at Berklee and thought of her and she should write something up and submit it, what could it hurt? Hmm. That made two points and gave her something to think about as she made her way to her bedroom for a quick nap before the night's band gig, a nap that would ultimately be rudely interrupted by (the always hungry) Lord Tubbington.

Boston and surrounding cities shared an antiquated public transit system colloquially known as the T. When Brittany first moved to Boston and had seen the large round T signs everywhere, she'd been singularly excited, assuming from the ancient subway cars she'd seen that the T stood for time-travel and that all anybody had to do was board one of these magic cars and time and space would be bent and maybe she could finally track down her long dead great-many-times-aunt Prudence Pierce and they could have a beer and maybe talk about Sierpinski triangles and stuff. It had been a sadly bitter blow to find out that the subway was just a subway, only so old and so in need of upgrades that getting from point A to point B was sometimes more theoretical than it ought to have been. The O'Malley-O'Neill's bar (known far and wide as the Double O) was in Kendall Square in Cambridge, which would mean an optimistically quick, albeit non-time-traveling, subway ride over the Charles River from Boston. The bar was located on the very outer fringes of MIT and it tended to be packed nightly with enthusiastic nerds and beer fans. Siobhan O'Neill, a canny and beautiful redhead married to one of the many no-good, no-account O'Malleys that littered up the place (her own words, spoken often), had further had the genius idea of having the occasional local band night, since MIT and environs had more than its share of musically inclined, if not always musically talented, people. One band formed right in the nearby Stata Center, for instance, was comprised of eight scientists playing musical rulers. There was nary a dry eye on those special nights when they performed a moving cover of ABBA's "Fernando" on their rulers, and after a few beers they unwound enough to also explain in detail how and at what rate the sound waves traveled from their rulers to the other end of the bar. They always guaranteed a fun evening. But in more recent times the MIT band of renown was The Pocket Protectors, of which Brittany was a proud member. Mercedes had been taken aback when Brittany sheepishly admitted she went to MIT _too _("Lord have mercy, Brittany, isn't one school enough for anybody? When do you _sleep_?"). But Mercedes had come to love Brittany's bandmates – Stacy, Candy and Anna - and would occasionally provide power vocals guaranteed to bring down the house. Mercedes saw it as great practice in a low pressure, fun environment, and Brittany loved to hear Mercedes sing and watch her have fun. Evenings spent with The Pocket Protectors were full of win.

The opening strains of "Witchy Woman" had barely begun when the audience members started hooting, hollering and making impassioned pleas to "CRUSH IT!" Though the words and level of enthusiasm could be somewhat frightening to strangers who'd wandered into the bar unawares, the words were actually innocuous enough, and directed at the lead guitarist, Candace Zhang, who was in a doctorate program studying Theoretical Biomechanics when she wasn't showing off her mad axe skills on the Double O's diminutive stage. It was hard enough being a lady science nerd, harder still being one named Candace and therefore inevitably called Candy by everyone. The final and ultimate indignity of Candy Zhang's life had come with the release of Candy Crush, which soon became the only thing anyone, _including her professors_, called her. The poor woman didn't stand a chance. So she "crushed it" with her usual skill and brought the house down, before things got a bit calmer for the rest of their set, which ended with Mercedes jumping up onto the stage and owning a powerful rendition of the classic Gershwin song "Someone to Watch Over Me" by channeling her inner Ella Fitzgerald. (The Pocket Protectors were nothing if not eclectic in their song choices, probably because the only proviso attached to bringing a song into their set list was that they all liked it.) Trooping off the small stage for their break before their second set, Siobhan came by, congratulating them and gushing to Mercedes that soon Siobhan would be bragging to everybody that she knew her before she was famous while quickly passing out beers to the women and offering her husband "totally for free" to any or all of them. As always, there were no takers.

It was while they were having their beers and fending off the attentions of their public that Stacy, the best (and only) drummer that The Pocket Protectors had ever had, pulled out her phone excitedly, nudging Candy to do the same. They both tapped screens for a moment and then showed Brittany online versions of the same flyer she and Mercedes had seen on their respective campuses.

"We stumbled across it on tumblr," Stacy admitted.

"When we were trying to be cool," Candy added.

"Yeah, that," Stacy said, beaming with pride.

"Stace, you're wearing your atoms shirt," Brittany pointed to Stacy's torso, which read _You Can't Trust Atoms, They Make Up Everything!_

"Yeah, it's cool," Stacy said doubtfully, looking down at her chest and sighing. Nearby Mercedes took a swig of her beer, rolled her eyes, and reflected on the directions your life can travel when you're not fully paying attention. Still ...

"That's three!" Mercedes exclaimed, with way too much enthusiasm, possibly because she'd been drinking beer all evening while the women had been performing. Brittany looked skeptical, but was forced to acknowledge that the triangulation was complete. She'd have to at least seriously consider it.

"What have you got to lose, anyway?" Candy and Mercedes were both quick to point out. "Yeah!" Stacy added, a beat behind. (This was sometimes an issue when the band was playing as well.)

"Well, for one thing, I haven't graduated from Emerson yet," Brittany said reasonably.

"But this is what you really want to do, right? You've said that screenwriting is so special because it can really make a difference," Candy said.

"And my God! Dinky Littelmann!" Mercedes was excited, slightly drunk, and still riding the high of her recent performance. "He always does such groundbreaking stuff! He's ... groundbreaking! I'd love to work with someone like him," Mercedes concluded wistfully. "Like, he's completely color-blind, as far as anybody can tell. I remember reading something he said about how a character isn't written to be white or black, but to be ..." She trailed off, suddenly uncertain of what Dinky Littelmann's characters were.

"_Groundbreaking?_" Brittany teased lightly, but she hadn't missed just how hopeful and wistful Mercedes had looked. Graduation time was coming up quickly for both of them, and they were both trying to land their dream jobs with all the odds stacked against them.

The second set was a bit more raucous than the first and beer had flowed so freely that their playing was more enthusiastic than accurate, and as they were breaking down after the set, they were curiously maudlin. It was Candy who put their mood into words.

"You're gonna go be a famous writer person," she said, pointing somewhat inaccurately in Brittany's general direction, then turned to Mercedes, "and you'll be this super famous singer, which you certainly should be, don't get me wrong, but you'll both forget about us and we'll miss you so, so much. Do you remember when we only knew how to play 4.3 songs?" She slurred, tears running down her cheeks.

"4.6," Brittany and the rest of the band said in unison, which led to an epic eye-roll from Mercedes, and plaintive, _sotto voce_ muttering that sounded like "math nerds ... I hang out with math nerds, this is my life now, why, Lord, _why_?"

But then Candy's tears turned to full-on sobs and Brittany, alarmed, scooped her up in a deep, heartfelt hug.

"Don't cry, Candy, we'll always be friends, we'll always be in touch, we'll always be The Pocket Protectors," Brittany soothed. "It's okay, honey, it's okay ..."

"It's ... it's ... not ttttthat," Candy stammered through her tears. "I just realized that ... whhhen I get ... mmmy doctorate everybody is gonna call me Dr Candy Crush! Why couldn't I have been nnnamed Gerrrtrude or something normal like that?" She took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to collect herself. "You know, my parents were huge _Murphy Brown_ fans. That's why I'm Candy Crush now. Who watches freaking, fucking _Murphy Brown_? Who? WHO?!" She paused, her tears suddenly turning into laughter, "I'm an owl!"

On this somewhat disturbing note, the evening ended, with Stacy and the ever-silent Anna balancing an imbalanced Candy between them, and Mercedes and Brittany heading back to Boston.

When they got back to their apartment, and Lord Tubbington had been fed yet again, Brittany found that she couldn't sleep, despite the long day and the evening's consumption of beer. She started to kick around what she thought of as "word bubbles" in her head, and slowly expanded those until she had a germ of an idea, and then she sat up very straight and reached for her laptop. She knew what she would write for her GOT TALENT? submission.


	4. Chapter 4

(a/n: Thank you for the story alerts and favorites and most especially for the comments and PMs. They're much appreciated. Just a couple of things: for anyone interested, I've put info about the musical ruler referenced in the last chapter up on my tumblr (it's the same moniker, tinlizard20 tumblr com; my Glee essays can be found there as well). And to the person wanting me to add Blaine to the story: be careful what you wish for. :-)

Making a TV show is a lot like making sausages: it's messy, demoralizing, complicated and downright disgusting most of the time. The people who make sausages and the people who make television likewise have commonality: the weak scuttle away from the business entirely, hoping to never have to think about it ever again, and the strong stick around, relishing a sense of superiority, an unwitting Darwinism, perhaps, celebrating their ongoing survival, often at the expense of their humanity. Only the very strongest will survive either thing intact.

The preproduction phase of a show is where it all begins. If the preproduction goes well and the decisions that are made are the right decisions, the show has a much better chance of succeeding than not. But in the end, no one can know until the show actually airs, and sometimes not even then, whether the show will be a success or a failure, thanks in large part to the fickle whims of the viewing audience. In the TV industry the term "audience" is often preceded by vulgar words and followed by teeth-baring snarls. It's sort of a love-hate thing, though mostly the latter.

For _Joy!_, there were some extra complications in beginning "prepro," since it was a musical and since it had Dinky Littelmann's name all over it. Musicals have a larger off-camera staff and more off-camera work in general. And Dinky Littelmann, whatever his many faults, brings with him a certain cachet of interest and success based on his previous works, especially _Slip and Tuck_, which no one had really expected to be a hit. Defying expectations earns a producer a lot of leeway.

In a meeting room in the obie at Faux, executives and flunkies from DL's production company were meeting with executives and flunkies from Faux, most of whom were visibly nervous, since they knew DL of old. Of course, Aleska Janson wasn't nervous and even if she was, it would not show. Casting director Susan Schwartz was nervous – and it did show – but she was also thrilled to be involved with this project. It could mean big things for Susan Schwartz, after all. And best of all, from Susan's point of view, the great Head of Faux Programming, Stephen Hyde, was also in attendance. Susan had heard the rumors about how Aleska had gotten her job, of course, and watched Aleska and Stephen closely for clues to their real relationship and possible fodder for gossip and maybe even some mild professional blackmail.

The single most important prepro decision might well be selecting a decent Line Producer. If Executive Producers are the Gods of Television (and boy do they know it!), the Line Producer is at least a demi-god, the person directly responsible for the day-to-day machinations of a given show. (The directors are embittered journeymen, most of whom drink too much. The writers? Well, they're sort of like the grapes that get stomped on at a winery: sacrifices to the cause of making something of potential merit.) Names for Line Producer were being bandied about at the meeting, which was meant to decide the key early personnel now that Santana and Kurt had been officially signed for the show. That in itself had been an unusual way of doing things, but Aleska in particular thought it was important in this case. She really wanted to get the main casting right and she felt that had been accomplished.

"So, there's Rufus Smith, I know he's out of rehab," Dinky suggested, "he's a decent LP."

Aleska pretended to consider Dinky's words. She even unbent enough to put a finger to her chin. "That's a great idea, DL," she said agreeably, "but you know what? I think it might be best to have someone more ... forceful and together, for LP. Of course, you're the boss, but ..."

DL had initially scowled at Aleska's words, then preened and puffed out his chest a bit at the word "boss." The resultant mix of expressions made him look less than sane, which, truth be told, was what Aleska had been hoping for, so she wasted no time dropping her little bomb, in the form of:

"Quinn Fabray."

"Absolutely not."

"Absolutely yes."

Tension was quickly dialed up to 13 on a scale of 10, everyone except DL and Aleska were darting their heads back and forth as if they were at Wimbledon. It was so awesome. Susan Schwartz was already thinking of the emails she was going to write about this ("...and then swear to fucking God I thought Aleska was gonna spit at him. Good thing I was there, you know?").

"She's pretty much the best LP in television," Aleska went on. "We'd be lucky to have her, but fortunately I know she's between jobs at the moment."

"She's a total bitch," Dinky whined.

"Yes, that's a great plus!" Aleska agreed and then smiled. A shiver went through the room.

With the issue of the LP now tacitly decided, they moved on quickly. The next item was show choreographer. It was known that Santana and Kurt could sing, but no one seemed especially clear as to whether they could dance, so early lessons would be necessary, just in case. Surprisingly, it was unanimously agreed that Mike Chang would be perfect to provide coaching and choreography. It was a rare occasion that Aleska and DL agreed on anything- there had been 47 emails between their assistants just to determine where to hold this meeting – and everyone was momentarily shocked and speechless. This wasn't supposed to happen. Where was the fun in watching them agree?

The writing staff was the almost exclusive domain of DL, and he had already placed several of his team on payroll, since writers are grossly underpaid and also always have bills they cannot pay. Getting his favorites on payroll was a necessary thing, especially his most favorite of all, Matt Popkins. Matt owed his entire career to DL, and DL never let him forget it, having started off as the lowliest of all species, a personal assistant, and thanks to endless and truly shameless ass-kissing, Matt had been slowly elevated, over various Dinky Littelmann productions, to the slightly less lowly breed of staff writer. Of course, DL was still very unhappy with what he privately termed "that bitch's little stunt" in reference to the new writer hire, who was as yet unknown. He was really hoping the whole stunt would crash and burn and make Aleska look bad. That would be so great. Alas, that probably wouldn't happen, but DL would make sure that whomever it was, was a _temporary_ hire. He was Dinky Littelmann, for fuck's sake, and he was the king of his writer's room. Some little _girl_ wasn't going to change that. They moved on to other categories: hair, makeup, costumes, on-set union personnel. It was easily decided that runners would be loaned from both DL's company and from Faux. It was provisionally decided that they would shoot in a soundstage right on the Faux lot, since one was available. For financial reasons, most of the filming would occur in the soundstage, since filming outdoors or on location always cost more than filming on set. Financial reasons would also keep post-production effects at a minimum. Musicals are always extra pricey to begin with, no sense in hiking costs where they can be easily cut.

The question of directors was a bit tricky, since no one who ever directed one of Dinky's scripts ever wanted to work with him again. But then again, TV directors were more beggars than choosers, so ... they'd probably take the job anyway, and just spend a few weeks drinking heavily, cursing their fate and, more specifically, cursing Dinky.

"Who do we get for the pilot?" Aleska asked.

"We should get a big name," Susan gushed, "get some buzz from it."

Dinky looked like a monkey denied a special treat: completely outraged, curiously childish, and somewhat feral. "All the buzz this show needs comes _from me,_" he said with an emphatic chest thump.

"Yes, of course," Susan immediately deflated, sure she would never work in this town again.

"Um." One of the co-producers on Dinky's team tentatively raised a finger in the air and started to speak, but Dinky interrupted.

"I can do it," Dinky said.

"No," everyone from the Faux table said together.

Dinky scowled once again, crossed his arms across his chest, and even stamped his foot beneath the table.

"How about April Rhodes?" Stephen Hyde suggested. It was beyond rare for someone of Mr Hyde's importance to be at a meeting of this sort, but he couldn't resist the opportunity of seeing Aleska and DL face off. He only missed the popcorn. It was also only someone of Mr Hyde's level of importance in the industry who could get away with saying _that name_ in Dinky Littelmann's presence.

Everyone knew the story, and several people present had heard several colorful versions of it. April Rhodes was likable, if somewhat flaky. She was talented. She was a small woman physically but had immense on-set presence. She was an excellent director, coaxing the absolute best work from everyone from the stars on camera to the assistant electricians behind the scenes. She was also a total lush who, whatever her professional acumen and skill set, failed utterly to pick up accurately on the vibes other people sent her way. And one evening, it was actually at the series wrap party for _Slip and Tuck_, she viewed Dinky Littelmann with new eyes. Predatory eyes. She may have had, even for her, a bit too much to drink, but in that moment, she saw him across the crowded room and little cartoon hearts danced above her head. She was a smitten kitten. She had to have him. Sure, he was a little old for her, being more or less her own age, but he was so, so pretty. (That may have been the drink talking.) Now, when April Rhodes sets her mind to something, she gets it. It was only moments later that she had DL in an awkward embrace and every person in attendance stared in open-mouthed shock, followed quickly by several of them surreptitiously reaching for their phones to get photographic proof that this was actually happening and maybe make some serious money by selling it. April gave DL's butt a friendly squeeze and he screamed a particularly girly scream, then ran in sheer terror from the party. For the next two days, no one could locate him at all, until finally he was tracked down in Burbank, where his plane was kept in a small hanger at the Burbank Airport. He was lying on the floor of his plane, curled into a fetal-like ball, horror still visible on his face. Several versions of the story had him sucking his thumb.

So everyone gasped at Stephen's outrageous suggestion, while also clearly enjoying themselves immensely. At first there was a brief snorting half-swallowed scoff – was it the young man Dinky had earlier shushed? - which was quickly followed by other uncouth noises. It's unclear who laughed first, but that's all it took. Pretty soon the entire room was filled with hysterical laughter, including Dinky's, though his may have been less robust than the rest and presented insincerely through tightly clenched teeth. Once everyone calmed down, Aleska suggested the great and mighty Stella Scully, if she might be available. The money men demurred. Stella did not come cheap. But it was decided that there was no harm in asking, since she'd probably turn them down anyway. On that somewhat indifferent note, the meeting broke up.

A couple of weeks later, in a rehearsal room in Culver City, CA, _Joy!_'s choreographer, Mike Chang, was putting Kurt Hummel, Santana Lopez and a handful of other cast members and dancers through their paces. Everyone was working hard and making progress during this relatively low-stress prepro time. Though everyone knew this project would be a go, at least for thirteen episodes, a lot of key personnel were still being vetted and considered at this stage. For on-screen talent, everything was being built up around Santana and Kurt and both were over the moon about it and correspondingly, they were willing to work twice as hard as anybody else just to prove their worth. From Mike's perspective, this was great, because the rest of the talent took their behavioral cues from the stars. Mike had never had such an easy job, and though he expected it to get a lot harder when they moved to production, he couldn't be happier now. He stopped the routine and gave everybody time to catch their breath, with Kurt and Santana immediately reaching for water bottles and phones in perfect synchronization. Mike couldn't have choreographed it better himself and filed away the move in his head as something they might actually use on-screen one day.

Santana found herself in an interesting place. Despite a long and moderately successful career, this was the first time she was headlining something she was actually excited about. Exterior Santana maintained her cool demeanor, but internal Santana was giddy and overjoyed. Then an alert popped up on her phone telling her that Maribel Lopez had just used their joint BofA account to the tune of $8737.69 for what looked like some "emergency" retail therapy. Just like that Santana's good mood evaporated. She sighed heavily and her shoulders slumped a little. Kurt, standing next to her, had seen the alert and Santana's reaction, and wanted to say something comforting to her, but couldn't think of the right words – in all honesty he was a bit afraid to say anything anyway, since trying to talk to Santana could be a lot like trying to diffuse an unexploded bomb. It was Kurt's turn to sigh heavily, and consider once again the ongoing enigma of his talented and beautiful costar, a woman he was pretty sure was terribly unhappy much of the time, however professional she was to work with.

It wasn't until several hours later that Mike released the sweaty, smelly and exhausted group for the day. Santana mulled her options. Her preferred choice would be to go home and sleep, her second choice would be to take out her blondes and have some fun and way down the preference list was visiting her mother and asking her why the hell she'd just spent $8737.69 of Santana's money. With great reluctance, she headed home for a shower and then began the trip to Santa Monica, deliberately choosing congested and smoggy Route 2 to make the drive out. It was time to visit her mother.

Normally Santana avoided her mother. She wasn't even sure when that had started, it wasn't any one thing, but rather a growing realization over the years that, for all Maribel's somewhat meager good points, at the end of the day, with her own career pretty much in ruins, Santana became a meal ticket first and a daughter second. The pain this caused Santana was something she felt every day, and something she resolutely refused to acknowledge, even to herself. As she trudged into her mother's house, she was both angry and vulnerable.

"Ma!" Santana shouted as soon as let herself in. As always, she tried to avoid looking at the décor, which she called "Trashiest Kardashian." There were little gold tassels glued to the wainscoting, a truly bizarre effect that made the elaborate golden swirled pattern look like it was diseased and spontaneously sprouting tassels desperate to shed themselves from the wall. Santana shuddered, as she usually did upon entering her mother's home.

"In here, sweetheart!"

Santana paused mid-step. Sweetheart? The fuck? Then she was in the back living room, and her mother had jumped up to give her a hug. Santana was taken aback by this atypical behavior. Was her mother dying or something?

"Ma? You okay?"

Maribel just laughed and settled back down in the couch, patting the cushion next to her, "you know I wish you wouldn't call me 'Ma,' it's misleading and unfair to me."

"How is it misleading? Last I knew you are, in fact, my mother."

"Yes, but people don't have to know that, silly. It's best that people assume we're sisters."

"You do realize we don't have an audience right now?" Santana shook her head. "We're not talking about this, okay? Let's talk about how much of my money you spent today instead. That account is for emergencies _only_. What the fuck were you thinking? I'm not made of money. You're for fuck's sure not made of money."

"Santana, I don't know why you need to be so crass all the time. Those girls you hang around with, I don't think they're good for you. I ... was hurt, Santana. Deeply hurt." Maribel paused and dabbed at a dry eye. She waited a beat, but Santana did not pick up her cue. Maribel sighed. That girl. "Why am I the last one to know you've been signed as _a lead_ on a new show? I'm your mother! I should be the first person you told!"

"So now you're my mother again, good to know." Santana suddenly felt very sad. "Leon and Danny told you?" Leon and Danny ostensibly worked as Santana's "management team" but she often wondered if they were simply spying for Maribel. Santana considered her response and opted for simple truth. "I didn't want to tell you until I signed, you know, I didn't want to jinx anything, and then after I signed I've just been so busy."

"Already? Wardrobe? They're moving that fast? Wow!"

Santana was reluctant to continue this conversation. "Um. No, not wardrobe. What have you heard from those assholes who theoretically work for me, anyway?"

Maribel frowned but immediately wiped it from her face. Frowns leave wrinkles. "I know you've signed as lead for a 13 at Faux! It's so thrilling, you know, that they're committing before the pilot!"

"That's it?"

"What else is there!?"

"Oh, it's no biggie, it's just, it's a show being put together by ... Dinky Littelmann."

Maribel screamed. "Oh my god! My precious baby!"

Santana rolled her eyes. "Christ, Ma, relax. It might not even go green."

"Is there a script yet?"

"Just pieces."

"Good? You have a lot of lines?"

Santana smiled in spite of herself. "Um, yeah," she said softly, "it's pretty good. So far." Then she took a breath, her mother would have to know sometime, better to get it out of the way now, she guessed. "It's a musical."

If Maribel was excited before, now she was in a whole other zone. She actually bounced up and down on the couch and then a bulb went on above her head and she said, "it's because of me! Have they mentioned wanting me on set yet?! Dinky knows of my talent as a singer and that's why you were offered a role ..." and once she got going on this train of thought, it was impossible to derail her. Though maybe a train isn't the best analogy, at least not for Santana's emotions, which were riding a familiar roller-coaster in her mother's presence. She left shortly afterwards, her mother still convinced that Santana was craftily being used as a mere conduit to get to Maribel, who'd been a one hit wonder decades ago and whose phone number was in the book. (And quite possibly on stall walls as well.) Santana's sadness grew until she couldn't stand it any longer, and she quickly called her blondes to hang out and, hopefully, forget.

Back in Boston, weeks had passed in a whirlwind of incessant activity. Brittany and Mercedes were both extremely busy with school and barely saw one another. Lord Tubbington, to his injured dismay, became nothing more than just another latchkey kitty. The only bright spot for him was that, since the two humans rarely overlapped, he occasionally managed to convince one human that the other human had not fed him. The ever-silent Anna of The Pocket Protectors, a German genius who wasn't quite in command of her English and therefore kept quiet most of the time, actually spoke. Siobhan at the Double O finally kicked her husband out of their home and their bar, which led to a night of riotous celebration. The Pocket Protectors with their special guest Mercedes Jones provided the entertainment and by the time the evening was over, all the women were more than a little tipsy. Brittany normally didn't drink to excess, since she had a tendency to lose both clothes and inhibitions which could very easily lead to embarrassing morning afters. But on the evening of Siobhan's Freedom Party, Brittany may have had a bit too much to drink. Mercedes noticed her, across the room, wearing a hat sideways and, apparently, practicing her gang signs. Mercedes sighed. Brittany did not look anything like a gangsta, however much she tried. In getting closer to Brittany, who was now doing a hip hop routine while still attempting gangsta poses, Mercedes was amused to see that the baseball cap she was wearing for "street cred" must have been appropriated from one of the MIT nerds. It had an elaborate formula on it, the meaning of which completely escaped Mercedes (and any normal person). Mercedes slipped out her phone and took a couple quick photos.

The following morning neither Brittany nor Mercedes were feeling their best. Breakfast was a muted, mostly nonexistent affair. Only Lord Tubbington was able to eat with his normal gusto. He was more than willing to help the humans with their breakfast, but was dissuaded from doing so by an uncaring and unsharing Mercedes. When someone knocked on their door, all three exchanged quick glances, wondering what was up.

"Rock, Paper, Scissors?" Mercedes suggested half-heartedly from her perch next to the kitchen counter.

"Nah, I'll get it, no worries."

Brittany opened the door to an absolutely stunning woman and found herself feeling immensely better already.

"Hello," this beauty said, "I'm Al-"

"I don't care!" Brittany said with such fervor her hangover headache returned. She winced. A pretty woman shows up on her doorstep and it has to be on a morning like this one. Just her luck. "Come on in."

"Who is it?" Mercedes asked, walking slowly and carefully into the main living area of the apartment. She looked at the woman and was unimpressed. Beautiful women didn't mean the same thing to Mercedes as they meant to Brittany.

"Jaguar Smith, I presume?" Aleska Janson said, a small smirk playing on her lips.

"_Say what_?" Mercedes asked, waking up fast.

Brittany's jaw dropped and her face flushed. She looked equal parts shocked and guilty, so Mercedes transferred her attitude toward Brittany and scowled fiercely. Aleska, no slouch in the attitude department, was secretly impressed. "_Oh ... my ... god_ ..." Brittany whispered.

By the time Aleska Janson left their apartment, the spinning heads they'd woken up with were much, much worse. Mercedes was undoubtedly the more shocked of the two, since she found herself provisionally hired for a television show – _a musical!_ – that she hadn't even known she'd "auditioned" for! Stuff like that doesn't happen in real life. She gave herself a little pinch. It hurt. Okay then. Sure, Mercedes hadn't yet forgiven Brittany for apparently writing about her under the guise of "Jaguar Smith" (_Gee, Brittany, how'd you come up with that one?_) or for sending a cloud link to Aleska of one of Mercedes' impromptu performances with The Pocket Protectors that Siobhan had filmed for her. But on the whole, how could she be angry with Brittany for maybe possibly helping Mercedes make all her dreams come true?

Brittany was in something of a daze as well. She held two business cards in her hand and couldn't comprehend the writing on either one. She had written a couple of scenes featuring Jaguar Smith, someone who bore a somewhat extreme resemblance in many ways to Mercedes Jones, and Susanna Lopierto, who ... may also have been sort of based on someone. Maybe. And Aleska Janson, who was a really big deal judging by the card Brittany couldn't read right now, had loved it. Loved it so much that she flew across the freaking country to meet them both. Loved it so much she wanted to hire not just Brittany, but Mercedes as well. What the hell? Is this real life? She gave herself a little pinch. It hurt. Okay then.

It wasn't until the next day, when Mercedes pulled Brittany into a tight hug and whispered "thank you" that it started to seem a little bit real. Brittany hugged back just as tight and whispered "that's what friends are for." Lord Tubbington, unimpressed, took advantage of this touching scene by helping himself to their breakfast plates.

Fortunately for all, Aleska was still a functional human being. She and her assistant visited various universities, talked to several people, made provisional plans to uproot the lives of two young women – and one cat – and transplant them back where they'd started from, to Southern California. It wouldn't be until weeks later, when they were in their new apartment in West Hollywood, that they realized just how much trouble the Faux executive had gone to on their behalf. She had literally arranged everything, and then waited to see whether her offers to the women would be accepted or not. She did not push or pressure them. In fact, she'd quietly alerted a young, but very smart, entertainment attorney named Kevin Stefalnik that his services might possibly be needed by two new up-and-coming talents. Without help and people in their corner, those sweet kids would be eaten alive and spit out like stale gum. The industry she worked in – and loved – could be a cold, harsh place. She promised to text him their address and further suggested that he bring his wife along for the ride, since Karen Stefalnik was making a great name for herself as a talent agent, having just left a major agency and striking out on her own. Aleska knew she was the rarest of rarities amongst agents: someone who cared about her clients as actual human beings. Kevin had been taken aback when he found out the "ride" he would have to take included a cross-country trip, but Aleska had never steered him wrong.

Karen and Kevin made a great first impression on Mercedes and Brittany and helped them review all the paperwork and contracts, carefully explaining what the legalese actually meant. They explained that Aleska had gotten them permission from their schools for an open-ended leave of absence which had already been granted. There was a list of potential apartments in the LA area they could take immediate possession of – whether together or singly. Faux was willing to cover the costs and maintenance of the Back Bay apartment for up to a full year in case things didn't work out in CA. Even the transport of their belongings from one coast to the other would be handled seamlessly by Faux. All they had to do was say yes and sign the papers.

And break the news to Lord Tubbington, of course.

So it was that, in a little under 72 hours, they went from being college students in Boston to being employed in Hollywood and having a team in their corner to see they were being treated right. Little wonder their heads were still spinning.

Their apartment in West Hollywood wasn't as nice as the one they'd left behind in Boston but it was still pretty cool. They had been adamant about staying roommates. Most of their belongings had been shipped out to California and they had taken a few days to settle in, contact family and friends, buy groceries, unpack. They were due to start the next chapter of their lives the following day and both were nervous, doubly so when they learned that they wouldn't actually be in the same place, despite working on the same show. Mercedes would be, for now, splitting her time between rehearsal rooms and Faux studios for wardrobe fittings and publicity photos and other such things that are all part of the on-screen talent's job of getting a new project off the ground. Brittany would be in the obie at Faux, where the _Joy! _writers' room was located. Despite their nerves, they were both so happy and excited, and both, unbeknownst to the other, felt that maybe, just maybe, their dreams were coming true.

The following morning Brittany woke up to a hungry and grumpy Lord Tubbington. Like many cats, he didn't care for change and lately there had been far too much change for his liking. She lavished attention on him, needing both to comfort him and be comforted in return. Then her phone alert showed a new message from Mercedes, who was already hard at work: _You'll never guess who's sitting next to me. Santana Lopez. Turns out you'll be writing for your old crush. Hahaha! serves you write for the Jaguar Smith :-p thing. everybody but me seems to love that damn name. Dammit. _Brittany had barely begun breathing again – _Santana Lopez! Oh my god!_ \- and was mulling whether to tease her about homophones or not when another text arrived: _Good luck today girl. You will slay. :-)_

Brittany decided not to tease her about homophones.

One of Aleska's assistants was responsible for making sure Brittany arrived at the main office building at Faux at 11 am sharp for her initiation into the mysteries and secrets of the writers' room. Brittany was as ready as she would ever be. She knew she could write, she had so far been blessed with a lot of ideas, and like everybody else who had never met him, she admired Dinky Littelmann and couldn't wait to be part of his team. Her dream job on the first try! Full of win!

Her assumed confidence and fast beating heart carried her as far as the door when it burst open and an irate man stood on the threshold, then held up a hand in the universal stop gesture. His other hand held a phone and he seemed to be in mid-conversation: "What the fuck do I care about your troubles, you fucker? Just make sure she's sexed up... Well, how do I know? ... Tell Salama or Santa or whatever the fuck her name is she has to shake her booty, her titties, whatever... Get them to cut that cheerleading uniform to barely legal ... Work it out and don't bother me," he said, then abruptly terminated the call. Brittany only had a split second to process and adjust to what she had just heard. Anger flared and coursed through her body like a tactile thing. She could literally feel it. She normally liked to mull a new thing over time, and think about it from all angles, like a tricky math proof would have to be thought out to be properly understood. But in this second, she found that she could process very rapidly. The anger was carrying her and in this second, Brittany was very angry indeed, an emotion she immediately masked.

With a blank face, she looked at Dinky Littelmann as he stared down, in every sense of the word, at her.

"You the new writer? Aleska's little pet project?" He sneered, his words conveying both contempt and disinterest. "_I'm Dinky Littelmann_," he bragged, aiming to impress and discompose.

"I'm -"

He held up his hand in the stop gesture again. She would come to learn this was something he did often. "Save it. Come on in, I'll introduce you around, then you can get to work."

"Sure thing, Mr Little Man," Brittany said brightly and blankly.

DL looked at her with quick suspicion, "did you just call me 'little man'?"

"Wait, isn't that your name? Or are you an anagram?"

"What?" He asked, flummoxed.

"An anagram. Like ... you know ... HARRY MYPUN or ... MY RUN HARPY?"

They were off to a great start, with mutual disregard on both sides, maybe even hate at first sight.

The writers' room was not an impressive sight. Uneven, scarred, stained table tops bore mute testimony to the torture writers must endure to write television. A broken chair rested against one wall. There was also a funny smell. There were no women in the room except Brittany.

"So this is where the magic happens," Brittany half-muttered, half-whispered to herself, nonplussed.

"Okay, so, meet my bro Matt 'Pudgy' Popkins," DL pointed to an unappealing and nondescript man a few years older than herself before continuing, "and this is Noah 'Puck' Puckerman." He gestured to a good-looking man with very close-cropped hair. For each nickname he'd made little finger quotes.

Brittany looked even more blank and waited a couple of beats. Apparently introductions would be one way only. After a pause she said, "I'm Brittany 'Brittany' S. Pierce," making her own finger quotes to fit in.

"Well, helllloooo," Noah Puckerman said suggestively, canting his hips forward a little.

Brittany recoiled from the smarm heading her way and stared with open suspicion at his extended hand. "I don't want to touch you," she muttered, "I'm afraid I might catch something."

"Hey! Don't hate on the Puckster! I washed my hands aft- my hands are clean, babe!" After this exclamation, an uncertain expression crossed his face and he muttered "I think ..." and then with what he erroneously thought was discretion, he sniffed his fingers. Brittany looked even more repulsed and opened a wider No No Zone between them.

DL, not being the center of attention at the moment, wasn't really paying attention. "Okay, so, any questions before you get to work? The guys can fill you in, I guess."

Dinky left the room with one last glance at her that mingled suspicion and indifference, leaving her in the charge of the two clueless looking men.

Brittany had arrived.


End file.
